To a New World, of Gods and Monsters
by Palgrave Goldenrod
Summary: You cannot build a better world without sacrifice. One-shot, pre-canon, spoilers for "After the Storm".


**To a New World, of Gods and Monsters**

**Author: **Palgrave

**Fandom: **_Castle_

**Rating: **PG-13

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything here. Well, except maybe one character who has a single line of dialogue over the phone. Yay originality?

**Warning:** Sort-of spoilers for "After the Storm".

**Author's Notes:** "After the Storm" fic, but not, if you know what I mean. Pre-Canon. Feedback and constructive criticism, as ever, welcome and gratefully received.

**Summary:** You cannot build a better world without sacrifice.

* * *

_A means can be justified only by its end. But the end in its turn needs to be justified._

**_Leon Trotsky_**

_Whoever tries to imagine perfection simply reveals his own emptiness._

**_George Orwell_**

* * *

The thing they never tell you about utopia is that it's always built on the ashes of what came before.

He remembers a lesson on archaeology in a history course he took during his undergraduate studies, what seems to be a lifetime ago, and remembers the teacher impressing on the class how every civilization is built on the remains of what stood there previous. How every civilization has razed what stood before to the ground and then built anew on top, layers and layers gradually building up higher and higher, until there are so many layers between the present and what stood in the past that it's been all but forgotten.

Without exception.

It fascinates him. The idea that underneath the sidewalks and the streets of the cities that make the modern world - the very city he stands in now, even - lie the remnants of societies, of entire lives, just buried and everyone on the top going about their business unaware that every step they take is over someone's grave.

He, on the other hand, is acutely aware of the graves he is walking over.

He sometimes wonders whether it's truly worth it, in those dark, lonely moments of doubt and indecision that inevitably come during the drive to the top. Those moments that never make it into the public eye, the moments he will never tell anyone about as long as he lives. Because he believes in his utopia, his perfect world where children will never have to suffer in fear and parents will never have to make their children suffer in desperation, but unlike so many, he is not ignorant of the cost. He knows what sacrifices are necessary, both of himself and others, and he has sacrificed so much to get to where he is and called on others to sacrifice more, willingly or otherwise.

And it breaks his heart a little bit. It does. He is only human, he is a good man, and it pains him to do terrible things, no matter how justified or necessary those things may be.

But he never wonders for long. He is a strong man as well. He has to be. You cannot reach the peaks he has reached with weakness, and you cannot accomplish the things he means to if you doubt your every move. He has always known that greatness requires strength, but he has come to learn - has been learning ever since that terrible day he went to help a friend with homework and discovered a tragedy that should never, _never_ have been allowed to come to pass - that as odd as it may seem, compassion requires ruthlessness. It requires the will to do what must be done for the benefit of all, no matter how terrible it may seem at times.

But still, he wonders sometimes.

The call he has been expecting comes in on his personal line, and he answers it after a single ring. He doesn't speak, just waits.

"It's done," the voice on the other end says, the voice of someone he trusts and who is close enough to the current situation to be able to report accurately while still keeping him sufficiently removed from anything he might not wish to be associated with.

He nods, once, and replaces the receiver without speaking. A breath he hadn't realized he had been holding is released, and a weight is removed with the knowledge that somewhere in New York, a lawyer named Johanna Beckett is herself no longer breathing.

Part of him is almost ashamed of himself for the relief he feels. Another part is in turn ashamed of his shame. He has done nothing but what had to be done.

Not because of any ill-will towards Johanna Beckett herself, of course. He doesn't even know the woman, aside of various reports he has had made on her, confidential reports that are even now being destroyed and any link even suggested between the two of them evaporating as it it never was. Indeed, he's heard many good things, admirable things even. In reading her dossier, he even sensed at times a kindred spirit to himself in many ways, if misguided in certain ways; a woman like himself devoted to righting wrongs, to making the world better.

Which is the sad irony, really; everything he has heard also suggests a woman admirably devoted to her principles and her causes, a woman who is not likely to be swayed from her course of action or the misguided righteousness of her cause by money or favors. A lesser woman would not earn his respect, but a lesser woman he could work with or buy.

But with Johanna Beckett... no. The risk was too great. He's worked too hard and sacrificed too much to take foolish chances, and Johanna Beckett was putting herself in a dangerous position. And all over a man like Joe Pulgatti as well, a common thug, a criminal parasite leeching off decent, hard-working Americans...

Such a shame. Such a waste.

He stands up and stretches, walks over to the window of his office. Outside, the lights of D.C twinkle in the cold January night. In the distance, the great dome of the Capitol is awash in golden light, towering over the city. It's a favourite view of his; it reminds him of everything that makes this country great, all the hopes and dreams of the people in the system they have created, everything he believes in. The great, humbling trust that the people have put in him to serve and represent them and their interests in the great forum of the land. The great power he has to make this a better country, and the even greater opportunities that lies in the grasp of those willing to take it.

Yes. It's worth it. Of course it's worth it.

But he still can give himself a minute to ponder. Indeed, it is the least he owes her. After all, his orders have made a man a widower tonight, and robbed a daughter of her mother. So yes, he can give himself a moment to wonder, a moment to doubt. Even if he does know what the answer will eventually be.

The phone on his desk buzzes again, this time the intercom. He walks over, presses down the button.

"Yes?"

"Senator," the girl on the other end says, "you asked me to remind you about the Nolan fundraiser tonight. In particular, the meeting you wanted with Mr. Nolan has been set up."

"Thank you, Rebeca."

He makes a point of remembering people's names, learning as much as he can about the people who work for him, who he asks to sacrifice so much to help him with his mission. You have to, really. It's simply a matter of respect.

As he slips on his jacket, he catches another site of the Capitol, in the distance, and unbidden, the thought of Johanna Beckett comes to mind, and with it a stab of regret. Such a tragedy. They could perhaps have worked together, had things have been different. But he remembers reading something about a daughter - a bright girl too, from what he has read, with a promising future ahead of her. Taking after her mother, apparently. The sort of young person this country needs. Perhaps he'll work with her one day.

He'd like that. It would be fitting.

Such a tragedy.

But he locks his regret about how things transpired away. What's done is done. Time to leave it in the past, where it belongs. He has no more time for such self-indulgences.

He has a better world to create.


End file.
